


time is a tender enemy

by manticoremoons



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Boat Sex, Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Incest, Jonerys Smut Fest, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Season/Series 07, Sex, The Lord's Kiss, Valyrian Dirty Talk, but not really, or should i say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 04:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: jon falls in love with daenerys one utterance of valyrian at a time (even though he has no idea what she's saying).





	time is a tender enemy

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an attempt to write a 5+1 of Dany speaking Valyrian and Jon getting hot and bothered about it as a contribution to Jonerys Smut Fest. But it sort of ran away from me, as these things do. This follows mostly the canon of season seven and on to a fictional-ish near future. I've used some episode titles for certain sections to indicate where scenes fall but it should be apparent. **Translations in the notes at the end**
> 
> I've never written for this 'verse and honestly read a couple of the books a long, long time ago so stylistically this makes little to no attempt to mimic GRRM (why even attempt to mimic greatness) and utilises primarily show canon. Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own but the characters aren't. Feedback is cool.

 

 

 

## I.

**the queen’s justice**

_“Gūrogon zir_ _ȳ_ _naejot p_ _ō_ _ja tistālion.”_

Jon decided there and then—as the cocky Dothraki guard hustled him and Ser Davos from the throne room with a grunt and a tilt of his head—that he despised her.

This presumptuous, arrogant, Targaryen ‘dragon queen’ as she called herself.

And _nothing_ would change his mind. Of that, he was sure.

 

## II.

**a king’s honour**

The first few days at Dragonstone had not been easy to say the least.

Thus far, he and Ser Davos had been treated as honoured guests—their rooms well-acquitted with every amenity they could desire, two servants assigned to see to their every need, decadent meals served to the private parlour that linked the two bedrooms with flavours Jon had never tasted in his life, exotic spices that made his tongue tingle with each bite, pleasantly so; fowl so tender it fell off the bone and smoky beef grilled to perfection, slathered in rich sauces or soaking in their own salted jus. By all means, they should have been enjoying themselves.

How could they with the threat of the Night King and his army on the very doorsteps of Westeros?

Even with the pleasant accommodation, Jon felt like a prisoner. His weapons, apart from the blade he kept strapped to his thigh and another tucked into his boot, had not been returned to him. Each morning he found his hand hovering over his waist where Longclaw should be and felt a twinge of irritation.

Scoffing, Jon pinned his gorget over his chest, running his fingers along the twin direwolves carved into the metal. The weight of it was comforting and familiar—he may not have most of his weapons but he at least had some armour and protection.

He thought of the Dragon Queen with her airs and graces, her thousand titles, the way she seemed to tilt her pert little nose at him and everything he represented. She still insisted on calling him _my lord_ even though he was a _King_. Davos had made sure to correct her every time, not that she ever conceded or apologised for the oversight.

Jon had an idea that the infernal woman didn’t apologise for much of anything. In his short experience, this Dragon Queen was surely the most high-and-mighty female he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. The sort who probably never stepped out without a retinue of fawning servants, swaddled in fancy silks, when she wasn’t granting audience to uncouth Northern “rebels,” as she deemed them. Aye, she was beautiful, that could not be denied. In all truth, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen with that moon-pale hair, violet eyes that he already knew turned slate grey when she was angry, and lips that could only be described as—

Shaking his head, Jon decided a brisk morning walk was in order. Not just to stop his wandering mind and those inappropriate thoughts. He needed the exercise. Back at Winterfell and at Castle Black, he’d have woken before dawn to begin martial drills, honing his body to as sharp a weapon as he knew how. Getting soft while faffing about down South while the Night King approached was surely not an option.

The sun filtered through the large windows that led to a terrace from his room, the salt breeze from the ocean mingling with the ever-present smell of mint and sulphurous ash in the castle.

As he made his way down to the beach, he appreciated the immensity of the view before him. In the North, nature’s beauty had an austerity to it, a sparseness born of necessity. What could survive in the Long Winter but the hardiest of creatures and plant life? Pines and firs so tall he had to squint to see the tips of them, hills covered in drifts of snow so high they occasionally obscured the trees. One was lucky to glimpse a splash of red from holly bushes, or the bright yellow fronds of a winter jasmine with its sweet scent. But most of the time it was stark and brutal. And it was the only place he called _home_.

Dragonstone had a different sort of appeal. The cliffs of dragonglass shone as though they’d been polished by the sun. The hills beyond those were a verdant green, the soil, some of which was clearly being cultivated for something, was pitch black but clearly fertile. The sand on the beach was paler, and his boots sank into it with each step. He felt a childish urge to flop down and draw a sand-angel the way he used to in the snow with Robb back when they were boys.

Blinking the silly thought away, he peered out at the sea, choppy waves over the horizon as far as he could see. Davos’ ship sat in the rather rudimentary harbour, visible from this distance amidst two score or so other ships likely belonging to the queen.

She had an enviable navy from what he could see—and this without the Greyjoy alliance he’d heard whisperings about on his wanderings in the castle. Up above, he imagined the dragons were hovering, just beyond the clouds perhaps. Jon had glimpsed them several times, his heart fairly fluttering in awe to see such creatures in the scale-and-flesh, so to speak. The two he’d seen were terrifying but also graceful for such a size, and there was another. He’d yet to see them breathe fire or anything but he imagined they would be of infinite value in a war against a nigh-unkillable ice army.

The queen had scoffed when he’d told her that he needed her help as much as she needed his. Perhaps she’d been right. After all, who would require much of anything if they had three full-grown dragons at their disposal?

But she needed allies, he knew. A foreign queen with a dubious claim to the throne as a child of a man who’d burned Starks and many others to piles of ash. While he’d agreed not to judge her for her father’s actions, the truth of a history neither of them had even been alive to witness hovered like a grim shadow over his head. He could almost hear the Northern lords clamouring for him to seek revenge and make the uppity dragon girl suffer the way she deserved to.

When all was said and done, she needed all the allies she could get if she had any hope of taking the throne. If anything, he needed to keep telling himself that or else what leverage did he have in this complex negotiation?

Hiking up the beaten rock trail to a path alongside the grassier hills beyond the cliffs, he huffed in annoyance. He cared little for the game of thrones—not when the fate of all of Westeros, perhaps Life itself, hung in the balance. It all seemed so small and petty and worthless.

The sound of childish laughter, pealing high as bells on the wind, set him on edge.

 _Children_? On Dragonstone?

A pitched shriek split the air. Jon didn’t think before running towards it. Once he cleared the hill he came upon an open field and the sight that greeted him brought him to a faltering stop.

It was a ragtag group of children, ranging from three years old possibly to a girl who must’ve been at least Arya’s age. Each one was occupied in some game or fun pursuit; a little boy with a straw-stuffed ball tossing it to a companion; another dashing after a butterfly; two girls chasing after a boy, evidently the one whose shrieks had caught Jon’s attention from the noise he was making. A few adults, mostly women, milled around to watch over the children. Some dozing, others chatting amongst themselves.

But in the midst of them all was an even more unexpected sight:

The Dragon Queen, laid out amidst the scraggly wildflowers with a stem of sweet grass clenched between her teeth as she leaned over and growled playfully at babbling baby on its back in front of her. Her eyes, a deep lavender now, were shimmering with mirth. There was an ease to her that he’d never witnessed in the cold throne room where she received her guests. Her hair was mussed, barely held back from her face by a leather string, and the clothes she wore were a far cry from the severe, stately gowns he’d seen her in – a tunic, if that, made of some sort of straw-coloured homespun material, a sturdy set of boots and a light woollen cloak, grass-stained, that still gaped open enough for Jon to see glimpses of her neck and arms.

 _“Dōna valītsos_ ,” she was saying to the baby. “ _Dōna valītsos isse se vys_.” She got a trill of laughter in response and some gurgling, to which she giggled in delight.

_Gods, she was beautiful._

The thought sprung so loudly in Jon’s mind he feared he’d said it out loud like some green boy. But she was lovely. Something warm and approachable about her here, idling in a field of grass, with few of the trappings of her status. It made curiosity prickle inside him, and he recalled Tyrion’s advice to try to… understand the queen a little better.

This was something of a start. Her people seemed to trust her, and, if the sight before him was any indication— _love_ her and she loved them. Here, without the armour of her official robes and diplomatic procedure, she was just a woman amongst her people.

“Mirah _, aōha rūs iksis sīr gevie_!” she called out to a woman who sat beside a tree.

“ _Nyke gīmigon ñuha dāria_ ,” the woman replied with a laugh. “ _Kostā gūrogon zir_ _ȳ_ _la syt se tubis_.”

The queen responded with a playful scoff, rolling her long-lashed eyes before she ruffled the baby’s mop of curly hair.

Jon didn’t recognise the pretty language they spoke. He had never possessed a gift for languages. Maester Luwin’s attempts at instilling such skills befitting true noblemen had slid off his and Robb’s backs like water off a seal. While Jon had loved the old tales and stories of heroes long dead, reading them in anything but the Common Tongue had been a chore. Even now, he could speak a few words in the Old Language thanks to his time beyond the Wall but he was hardly proficient. And any words he could say weren’t fit for respectable company, let alone a queen.

He took a step back to hide, somewhat ineffectively behind a tree. Could it be considered spying? If he was caught, they’d think him even stranger than they already did. _King in the North with no social graces_. Nothing at all to speak of.

Out of all of the Stark children, Robb had always had the easy charisma, the ability to make every single person in the room feel welcome. Sansa was everything a lady should be and still had her mother’s penchant for social graces and decorum, even after all that she’d seen and endured the last few years. As a little girl, Arya hadn’t cared whether people liked her or not, and that had held a certain mischievous charm.

And then there was him. _The Bastard_. And even worse, an awkward, charmless bastard. The Night’s Watch hadn’t called for any of these unspoken rules of societal engagement, so he’d never bothered to learned them. Now he found himself stumbling into this world of nobility and status ill-equipped with two left feet, and nothing made him feel clumsier than the woman before him.

Just as he readied himself to make a quick escape, he heard, “Lord Snow, will you not join us this morning?”

He winced at the honorific, and stepped out of his hidey place. “Your Grace, I trust you are well this morning?” _There, he_ could _have social graces._

“It is a fine morning—often the volcano makes everything so dreary and misty. We thought it a good idea to come and enjoy the sun while we can.”

Jon nodded. He watched as she tickled the baby in front of her, the sweet tinkle of laughter made even his own mouth twitch in humour. He could not stop his gaze from dropping to her bosom, the ripe swells of her breasts shook with her movements. He was no saint, after all. With a gulp, he flicked a glance to the treetops in the distance. Staring at his betters like a slack-mouthed idiot wasn’t exactly kingly behaviour, was it?

Although, remembering dead King Robert on his visit to Winterfell all those many years ago—the man hadn’t ever bothered to cover his lascivious staring at anything in a skirt. If there was ever a king he _didn’t_ want to resemble, it would’ve been that one.

_“Dōna prūmia, ñuha riñītsos kessat sagon aōha age, sir.”_

She was saying, and Jon watched a shadow cross over her face, like clouds obscuring the sun, if only for a moment. He wished to ask her what was wrong, or if he could help in some way, perhaps make a jest that might make her laugh and banish that sad glint. But he swallowed the words and the impulse. Quickly, as though it hadn’t happened, she was grinning again, recommencing her tickling of the tiny bundle on her lap.

Clearing his throat, Jon muttered, “I must return to the castle, your grace. Ser Davos awaits me to break our fast.”

Just as he turned around to make his way back, she responded with a request—or more accurately, and order:

“You will dine with us this evening, my lord. I believe we have much more to discuss regarding yours and my strategic needs.”

Once again, he nodded and tamped down his unruly desire to offer her a peevish retort _that he’d been waiting for another bloody audience for two bloody days_ or a reminder for her to address him properly. He would hold his temper, and continue to ‘play the game’ as Davos and Lord Tyrion had advised him. At the very least he’d play the diplomat for a few more days. If there was no hope of mining the obsidian he needed for weapons, he would need to return home empty-handed.

At least he’d be one of the northern kings to return from the South with his life intact, he thought morbidly. Which was more than could be said for too many others before him.

 

 

## III.

**grace**

“You’d better get to work, Jon Snow.”

He looked at her profile, the delicate lines of her face set in a serious expression. His belly quivered with something like indigestion. He realised that it was: _surprise_.

She, the Dragon Queen, had, for reasons he did not quite understand, conceded to let them mine the dragonglass. He had not expected it, if he was honest. He was sure she’d continue to demand he “bend the knee” until the old gods themselves manifested to tell him to return home to the North.

But she didn’t. She offered her dragonglass and her men to carry out the mining, without asking much of anything in return.

She was right, perhaps they both needed to reconsider what it was they thought they knew about each other—about everything.

Her unexpectedly gracious act had pulled him short. He had come down here, ready to cajole, wrangle and perhaps even fight for her to see reason and instead, she had simply made the offer.

He found a mysterious warmth settling in the centre of his chest as he gazed at her one last time. She was softer in the late afternoon light, the sharp shoulders of her dress seemed almost too severe for the pretty picture she made. It shrouded her form like an armoured cassock. He was struck then by the thought that the two of them were not so dissimilar after all. It was not just that they’d both lost two brothers. Here, overlooking the jagged cliffs hanging over the ocean, the world of Westeros to the west of them, and Essos to the east, and the horrors that lay beyond the Wall up north—they were just two young people with the weight of the world, or at least the people that depended on them, on their shoulders.

Of course, her shoulders were much prettier than his own. Everything about her was pretty, her lips, the curve of her cheek, her—

Stifling the direction of his thoughts, he reminded himself again. There was no time to think of pretty things or the generosity of strange queens. He shook his head, and made his way back to the castle.

He heard her call out, to her dragons he realised as one of them swooped out from the cloud-shrouded mountains above.

“ _Drogon, māzigon naejot nyke_.”

A part of him wanted to wait just to see the beast land before its mistress, to see how such a tiny woman controlled such a monstrous animal. His respect for her and the power she wielded rose just to think of it.

But he did not. As she’d said herself, he did indeed have a great deal of work to do.

 

## IV.

**spoils of war / eastwatch**

Four weeks they had been at Dragonstone. He needed to send word to Winterfell, but the mining had occupied every hour of his days and sometimes nights, as they attempted to extract as much rock as they could. He had even begun to consult with some of the queen’s stonemasons and blacksmiths to fashion designs for weaponry that might aid them in the soon-coming war.

That evening, they all dined together in the castle’s main hall as they did every night now. It wasn’t even a quarter full of people but still, with the succulent pig carved up on the centre of the table, the warm glow of candlelight along with the roaring fire, and the bittersweet mulled wine—there was a feeling of great cheer and amity.

He sat at the right hand of the queen, opposite her hand, a place of honour that he almost wished he’d been denied. In his youth, sitting at the right hand of a queen—let alone being allowed to enjoy a banquet of any kind—had been a privilege denied to him. He’d spent most of such occasions sitting at the lowliest table out of Lady Stark's sight or in the stables, petting the horses, and waiting for Cook to give him a plate of the best scraps if he was lucky.

But he dearly wished he’d been denied the privilege again. Not because he despised the queen and wished to be as far away from her as possible— _would that that were the case_. No, it was the squirming, awkward sensation in the pit of his gut. An incomprehensible feeling that only intensified whenever she looked to him for an answer to a question or laughed at some jest Tyrion made. Those changeable eyes of hers shimmered by the braziers’ light, drawing his gaze to her again and again, helpless as a moth.

He’d damn near lost his breath and his senses when she’d walked in at the start of the meal. Her petite form draped in pale blue silk, the ever-present House Targaryen chain she wore curved over her bared shoulders, one of the dragons nosing at the curves of her left breast, drawing attention to that part of her body in a manner he had tried not to notice. And failed rather miserably. Her hair was twisted and plaited into an elaborate coil at the top of her head, baring the nape of her neck, graceful lines dotted with a freckle here and there. As the night wore on, and the wine loosened him, he found his eyes drawn again and again to the freckle just under her left ear—wondering, inappropriately, what it would taste like.

Taking a sip of his port, Jon forced his gaze to the whorls of brown in the wooden table in front of him.

It was ridiculous. Already, Davos had made jest of his ‘staring at her good heart.’ Jon had dismissed it, of course. _There was no time for any of that_. They had mined a great deal of dragonglass already, they would be leaving for Winterfell in a week or two. And soon, they would be ready to face the Night King and his abominable horde.

But still, he found his thoughts creeping towards the queen more and more as he came to know her. He _knew_ it was folly, he _knew_ there was no time for it but he was helpless.

“My lord, you are very quiet this evening—does something displease you?”

Reluctantly, Jon raised his eyes, doing his best to hide the inner tumult he was experiencing. She was watching him with a wary smile at the corner of her mouth, he glimpsed her pearly teeth nibbling on her lower lip as though she was nervous waiting for his answer.

He tried not to stare again, lifting his left shoulder in a shrug. “No, your Grace, I—I am merely tired from the day.”

“Oh—of course,” she nodded quickly, and glanced down at her wineglass. “ _Sīr dovodedha, mittys ābra_ ,” she mumbled. A splatter of pink across her cheeks drew his eye. Before he could dwell on how it made her beauty that much more compelling or wonder what she’d muttered to herself or _why_ she would blush at anything he’d said, she asked, “I hear that the nights are far longer up North, I imagine you must take your rest much earlier?”

With a wry grin, he said, “Well, you have to understand, the nights are long on the Wall—but if you stay still too long, you may just freeze where you stand. I spent many a long night watching rather than sleeping, sharing some warm ale with my fellow brothers, keeping ourselves awake with terrifying tales and even worse jokes.”

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that he felt like a caress on his back. She took a sip of her wine, the red leaving her lips a berry pink, slick and wet as she notched the cup on the table again. She licked at the stray droplets. Jon felt an answering tug in his groin.

She would be the death of him, he knew it now.

“I'm sure the camaraderie you all shared must have been very special to you.”

“It was,” he concurred. _Until, of course, it wasn’t_ , he thought bitterly.

“Do you miss it at all?”

Jon contemplated his answer carefully. Leaving the Watch and abandoning his vows had been a difficult choice. He wasn’t an oathbreaker by heart. But he knew it had been the right choice, he knew he could never go back to it, not after what he’d seen and done, not after what he’d come back from.

But there was still a dull ache when he thought of it.

“I believe,” he said, quietly so only she could hear, “That I was meant to leave, to return home to Winterfell, to take the path I’ve taken now up until this very moment.” He met her gaze in the candlelight, and it seemed as though the rest of the room disappeared, and it was the two of them in a world all their own. “Do you understand?”

She regarded him, a flare of recognition in the depths of her midnight-blue eyes.

The moment was broken too soon by a raucous laugh and the crash of a tankard falling off the table.

Daenerys jumped in her seat and tore her gaze from his.

Jon blinked, shaking his head to clear it. He avoided Tyrion’s knowing smirk from across the table.

Instead of reminding himself—yet again—of his duty, of his purpose. He took a long gulp of his wine. It would be easier, for now, to get well and truly drunk.

 

 

## V.

**the dragon and the wolf**

_“Ipradagon nyke, Ionos.”_

The first time, Jon wondered if perhaps he misheard. With Dany’s thighs wrapped tight against his ears, while she rode his tongue, the taste of her was sweet and tangy and something he could easily grow addicted to—a man couldn’t be blamed for hearing things. So dedicated to his task, forgetting to breathe with the desire to swipe his tongue across her cunt again and again, lapping at the remnants of his and her essences.

But then she moaned it again. “Ah, _qogralbar nyke_ , _Jon_. _Kostilus_.” Her voice hoarse, fraying at the edges as she crested once more, her dewy wetness dripping onto his tongue—he’d lost count how many times that was now. Five? Six.

He may have taken offence at a woman calling another man’s name in bed with him. But he’d heard her say ‘Jon’ clearly.

The other words could’ve been gibberish for all he knew. Whatever language she was speaking was different, there was a poetry to it—something wild yet delicate that spoke to some part of him he couldn’t identify. But he liked it.

He would ask her later, tomorrow. For tonight, their first night, he wanted no distractions.

Dany’s fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him up towards her stopped any further thoughts of strange languages he’d never learned.

She kissed him, her tongue laving at his with filthy abandon. Then, she flipped him onto his back and trailed yet more kisses down to his clavicle where she paused to suck at the skin there. There would be a bruise in the morning. She licked at the crescent-shaped scar above his heart, lavishing it with loving attention that made his feet curl. When her lips wrapped around his cock, and she took his full length down to the back of her throat, he didn’t have any coherent thoughts in _any_ language for a long while.

 

 

## VI.

**the voyage to winterfell**

They were mere days from Winter Town, or rather White Harbour, two dozen or so leagues from the town itself, and would trek a few leagues further to Winterfell.

After that first night on the voyage from King’s Landing, they hadn’t slept apart. It was as if they both knew how little time they had. As soon as they hit land in the coming week, they would be readying themselves for war, and with war came all manner of complications and horrors. So they would take these precious few moments to savour one another, to map every inch of the other’s body, to claim every bit of territory with their lips and their teeth and their hands.

Jon had known love once before. He knew enough to recognise that this was the same but also different. Not least because he was different from the boy-man he’d been with Ygritte. The memory of her still made his heart clench, her sharp tongue, her spirit, the brevity of their time together, his betrayal in the end. He knew what it was to lose something, to let go of it even when parts of him screamed to hold fast.

He had thought the hole left by Ygritte could never be filled with anything else. And after he’d died and come back, it seemed the hole had become a gaping maw, dark and terrible and lonely. The constant itch under his skin to fight, to kill, to do what he was good at even if it killed him—perhaps _so_ it could kill him. Because if he was dead then this gnawing ache at the core of him would disappear.

Here, under the lurching light of the sole lantern they’d lit hours before, their bodies tangled beneath the heavy blanket, he watched her sleep, her head nestled against his chest. He had run out of ways to describe her comeliness. All he knew is that he could happily gaze upon her for the rest of his days, and consider it a life well spent.

Two moons ago, he would never have contemplated having this. Little more than a week ago, Beric had told him the terrible truth he’d known from the second he’d been dragged back— _you and I won’t find much joy while we’re here_.

But he’d been wrong. This feeling, _sweet_ and hopeful and undeniable, flowering in the desolate dark of the world in which they dwelt was _real_. As real as anything else he knew. More real than any mythical, silent Lord of Light, certainly.

He grazed his forefinger along the coral-coloured shell of her ear, then further down to her chin. She smiled, a grumpy frown marring her forehead before she opened her eyes with a groan.

She peered up at him. “You know, it’s very rude to watch a woman sleep, Jon.”

“How can a man resist when such unrivalled beauty lays in his arms.”

She tucked her face into his arm, uncharacteristically shy. She pulled away with a chuckle, he could see the faint pink dusting her cheeks too.

“I can’t believe my first impression of you was that you were an awkward, mannerless brute.”

“Oh, but I _am_ an awkward, mannerless brute.”

With a stubborn glint in her eye, her brow furrowing, she sat up and swung a leg over his so she could straddle his torso. He did his best to ignore the feeling of her pressed so close to his already-stirring cock with only passing success.

“You’re so much more than that. Kind, and honourable, and brave—albeit stupidly so. You brood too much. You're humble, to a fault. And you do have a comely face—.”

“Do stop lest I get a swelled head, my queen.”

She canted her hips slightly, an impish curl to her kiss-swollen mouth. “Hm, well, something else _swells_ beneath me.”

A shocked guffaw escaped his throat at her raunchy humour, his chest shook with mirth. He had forgotten the feeling.

Dany’s smile grew softer as she watched him before she leaned down to kiss the last of his laughter off his lips. It was tender the way she nudged at his nose with her own, suckled at his top lip as though it were a sweet treat. Then she tilted her head down to whisper against his bearded chin, a secret, that he heard all the same, “ _Iksā ñuha dārys_.”

He frowned, tugged her up to face him and ask, “What is that language?”

“Valyrian,” she said, a coy smile dimpling her cheeks even as her eyes shone with such unabashed fondness that it made his cheeks and chest burn. “It’s the language I grew up speaking along with the Common Tongue.”

Nodding, he ran his palms along her thighs, drawing her closer until his cock, now fully hard, nestled against her wet centre. She was ready, and he hadn’t even touched her. “I don’t speak it—I’ve never had a gift for different tongues.”

“Oh, I would beg to differ, my love.”

“You are shameless,” he declared with some pride—after all, it was _his_ talent for giving the lord’s kiss she was praising. The endearment, _my love_ , only made his delight that much more pronounced and he snuck his hand in between their legs to rub gently at her pearl.

“You’ll have to teach me how to speak it someday.”

She rocked against his fingers, a slow grind that made her breasts shake. He craned his head upward to suck one pouting pink nipple, moaning around it when she jerked into his touch.

“Hm, Missandei is a far better teacher than I— _ah_ —she has more patience. I’m sure she’d love to take you on as a pupil.”

He lodged the information away to revisit another time but couldn’t help but ask, “Will you tell me what it is you just said, at least?”

Dany shook her head, raising herself up on her knees and grabbing his dick in her hands, positioning him at her entrance, and sliding down with a pleased whimper. “When you learn Valyrian, and figure out what it is I said, tell me.”

Then she threw her head back, the heavy curtain of her hair brushing against his thighs, and began to ride him in earnest.

Any other time and he may have forced the matter. But with her cunt snug and slick around him, and her lush breasts glistening with his own spit in the dusky light of the cabin, and her body moving above his with a hypnotising grace as she took her pleasure—he found, he didn’t much care for an answer right then.

 

 

## VII.

**time is a tender enemy**

He finds out, eventually. A long time after that night in the cabin. And the memory as well as the words she’d said then, and many times after, fills him with a warmth so potent he thinks, fancifully, that he may be walking on air.

He tells her so, too, amidst the smoke and ruin, a mouth full of blood and a fool's hope. A tender ache in his heart.

 

 

## fin

**Author's Note:**

>  **All translations were gleaned from[ this site](https://lingojam.com/EnglishtoValyrianTranslator), who knows if it's accurate but it sure looks pretty. I've taken some liberties because I'm allowed to and it's not a real language.**  
>  Gūrogon zirȳ naejot pōja tistālion = take them to their rooms  
> Mirah, aōha rūs iksis sīr gevie = Mirah, your baby is so cute/beautiful  
> nyke gīmigon ñuha dāria = I know my queen  
> kostā gūrogon zirȳla syt se tubis = you can keep him for the day  
> Dōna prūmia, ñuha riñītsos kessat sagon aōha age, sir. = Sweetheart, my little boy would be your age now  
> dōna valītsos isse se vys = sweet boy, sweetest boy in the world  
> Drogon, māzigon naejot nyke = Drogon, come to me  
> sīr dovodedha mittys ābra = [that was so] silly / awkward, you idiot [talking to herself]  
> ipradagon nyke, Ionos = eat me, Jon  
> qogralbar nyke = fuck me  
> Kostilus = please  
> iksā ñuha dārys = you are my king  
> [ me on tumblr](https://magalimoons.tumblr.com)


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